


What Friends Do

by MeldeBaggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: As in proper Narnian faun, Crack that might be taking itself seriously, Cuddling, Deerstalker, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Faun!lock, Gen, I suppose, Kid!Lock, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 17:00:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeldeBaggins/pseuds/MeldeBaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just an idea that popped into my head while knitting an earflap hat after having stumbled across this thing called “fawnlock” earlier. More so cute little kid!lock than proper Narnian faun. Further proof that this fandom is as crazy as it gets. </p><p>A young Faun!lock is terrified of deerstalkers because of the hunters that used to wear them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Friends Do

The woods were a peaceful place, far away from the London smog and the relentless barrage of crime and politics. Or at least John could pretend here, here where the landscape looked like something out of picture book. Here, he could understand why people like Tolkien preferred the countryside to the gears and wheels of, well, everywhere else.

But, John smiled thoughtfully as he opened the door to his little cottage, he could also see how such a place would be lonely without company.

As if on cue, a clattering sound akin to footsteps greeted him once he’d stepped over the threshold.

“Jawn, Jawn!” the little faun shouted gleefully, drawling the syllables as his tongue, yet unaccustomed to English, always did. He was holding up something that looked like a rudimentary—but skillfully-crafted—pan pipe.

“What’s this, then?” John asked, kneeling before his woodland neighbor.

“’s an experiment,” Sherlock said decisively, putting it to his lips and trilling a composition that could have been a lullaby, or perhaps a dirge.

John grinned, impressed as ever with Sherlock’s musical ability. “Did you write that one?”

“’Course,” Sherlock said, rubbing one fist against his nose and looking down, ears swiveled backwards shyly.

“Amazing,” John said, scooping up his goat-legged friend in his arms and shutting the door behind them as he made his way to the living space.

Sherlock bounced in his arms, staring intently into his eyes. “Wanna see my more experiments? I did while you were gone!”

“Okay, sure, just let me put some stuff away, and I’ll be right there.”

Sherlock gave a happy sound somewhere between a bleat and a cheer, and then scrambled down from his human perch to dart into the kitchen, presumably to prepare his “experiments” for John’s perusal.

John smiled to himself as he went into his bedroom, toed off his shoes, and dropped his medical bag onto the bed. He fished out the one thing that didn’t belong in it: a hastily-wrapped package that had been a gift from Stamford back in London, who had decided John deserved a visit at his new clinic and a housewarming gift to boot.

John tore open the paper, then laughed as he saw what it contained. The hat was a tweedy grey, with two fronts and ear flaps, and a _ribbon_ , of all things. There was a note tucked inside the crown, just a post-it with a messy doctor’s scrawl, saying, “For when you find some deer. Now that you’re a woodsman, you’ll have the right headgear.”

John shook his head. Always a joke with Stamford, but that was one of the reasons he was good mate to take on nights out at the pub. John went back into the living room, where a mirror hung over the mantelpiece. He put on a face and set the deerstalker on his head, first sideways, then chuckling to himself as he righted it. It didn’t look too bad, he supposed. And he would need a hat in winter, probably. May as well keep it.

At the sound of a sudden bleat, John whirled around. Sherlock must have been in the kitchen, but no longer. The telltale clip of hoofbeats sounded out the back door, gone before John could call out.

John dashed outside, not heeding the squish of wet grass under his stocking feet. “Sherlock!” he called, hoping that the faun would return, or at least hear him. “What happened?” he tried again.

For at least ten minutes, he wandered the near edge of the forest, calling out to Sherlock in his most comforting tones. After that, he felt a convulsive shiver and decided that, if he was going to search for a skittish faun, he would need at least his shoes, and probably a warmer jacket, as the sun was just dipping to the horizon.

Upon returning to his cottage, he caught sight of himself in the mirror, huffing at the ridiculous hat. He pulled it off and tossed it onto the couch, increasing his pace to fetch his coat and shoes.

Minutes later, he was outside again, calling out to Sherlock and shining a torch into shrubbery. “Sherlock, I just want to know you’re okay. Sherlock!”

Perhaps a half-hour passed, and he was about to despair of finding his friend that night, though his determination to continue looking despite that had not waned, when he heard a soft whisper.

“Jawn?”

John dropped to one knee, letting the torch shine at the ground, not the level of the small creature’s eyes, wherever he might be. “It’s me, Sherlock, just me. Are you okay? Are you there?”

There was a lengthy pause, but then the bush before him and to the right rustled, and a sniffling Sherlock scooted out, ears flattened against his head in either submission or wariness.

“Hey, what’s the matter? C’mere,” John crooned, beckoning the faun to come closer, though he made no advances himself.

Sherlock stared at him with wide silver eyes, but he seemed to overcome whatever sudden fear he’d acquired and threw himself into John’s arms, making a tearful _baaing_ sound.

“Oh, sweetheart,” John whispered, holding the child close. “What happened?”

“I—no’ scared,” Sherlock hiccupped, rubbing his damp face in John’s coat. “I no’!”

“No, it’s okay. You’re not. You’re fine. You’re brilliant. It’s all fine. It’s okay,” John murmured steadily as he stood, holding Sherlock carefully.

Sherlock clung to him all the way home, until John took him into the bedroom and laid him on the bed. The faun curled into a ball, back to John and shoulders still shaking. John climbed into the bed, drawing Sherlock into his lap as he sat against the headboard. “Hush, dear, it’s all right,” he murmured again. His fingers traced through Sherlock’s thick, dark curls, between the stubby horns, and the faun started to relax a bit. “What happened?”

Silence fell over the pair, but eventually Sherlock whispered, “You—are you go’n’a hunt me?”

“What?” John started back in surprise, banging his head on the hardwood headboard. At the noise, Sherlock curled more tightly into himself, and John leaned forward to catch him up again, murmuring steadily, “No, no, I’m not going to hunt you. I would never hunt you, or anybody else.” _War notwithstanding_ , he addended in his mind, though now wasn’t the time to be qualifying his statements to the little child in his lap who needed consolation.

“But…” Sherlock began, “you—you had hunn’er hat. ‘S wha’ bad men wear.”

“Hunter hat—?” John stopped the question as he realized: the deerstalker. The _deer stalker_. “No, that wasn’t mine, it was—a present, from a friend of mine. He didn’t mean for me to hunt things with it. It’s just a silly-looking hat.”

Sherlock shook his head against his furry knees. “Is bad. Is _bad_.”

“Okay,” John acquiesced, pressing a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. “I’ll get rid of the bad hat, okay? You won’t ever have to see it again.”

Sherlock squirmed around so he was facing John, silver eyes searching blue for any hints of deception. After what seemed like an age, the young faun seemed satisfied as to John’s honesty, and ducked his head against John’s chest again, rubbing his face back and forth in the soft wool of his jumper.

John hugged his small friend close, one hand moving up to stroke Sherlock’s hair again. He could hear a cooing, purring sound coming from the faun, which was a distinct improvement upon the cries of earlier, though they were not yet fully contented. Knowing that human children, and even adults, needed time to work through a manifestation of a phobia, John would gladly hold Sherlock for as long as the faun wanted, even if that turned out to be until they both fell asleep.

John pulled up the covers and settled into a more comfortable position, Sherlock making only small sleep-noises as he did. As his eyes drifted closed, he wondered what the child in his arms had been through, that he not only knew what a deerstalker was, but also to fear the men that wore them. He’d never seen any other fauns in these woods (before or since meeting Sherlock), so did the youngling have a family? Had they been lost to hunters who thought they were deer? Had he seen other woodland animals taken for food and sport? Had they been his friends, or pets?

John held his Sherlock a little more tightly, trying to stop the entire movie of _Bambi_ from playing out in his mind. He didn’t need any more nightmare fuel, thank you very much.

“I will always protect you,” he whispered into Sherlock’s silky ear, swearing it a vow though he was sure the faun was already asleep. “That’s what friends do.”


End file.
